Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  ‘Everything okay, Dame Frances?’ Julian came over from his table at the back of the room. It was a tricky set-up. Dame Frances insisted that he be by her side but also insisted that she be at the top table, which obviously needed to have only the top guests placed at it, so he tended to spend the events running back and forth the entire room’s length.

  ‘Yes, how’s the running sheet?’ She put her spectacles on her nose and looked at Julian’s notes. ‘Right, it’s time in five minutes for me to speak?’

  ‘That’s right, Dame Frances, I’ve checked with the sound guy and he’s ready for you.’

  Dame Frances rose and made her way down the room keeping to the left of the long catwalk, feeling secure that should she trip, she would be able to grab hold of the stage. Reaching the end of the room, she laboured up the four steps to the podium. No handrail. Ridiculous. She looked out at the room. She should have had Julian introduce her and settle this mob down. It was an impossible task to get a gaggle of women to shut up. They squawked and carried on as if they hadn’t had a conversation in months.

  Julian saw her concern and was by her side in a flash. ‘Shall I?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I don’t have it in me.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Julian began to no avail. It was as if the six strategically placed speakers weren’t operating, for all the good they were doing. The sound technician turned up the volume.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, may I have your attention?’

  The nattering and socialising seemed, if anything, to get louder. No one was interested in halting the fascinating conversations they were having about themselves.

  Dame Frances got irritated which, in turn, gave her an idea. ‘For heaven’s sake, give it to me.’ She shouldered Julian away from the mic and said two simple words into it: ‘Door prize.’

  It was as if she had just come on stage in a gimp mask. The room instantly became silent.

  ‘Thank you for your attention, ladies and, of course, gentlemen. Hello, Simons.’ She wriggled her fingers at the only men in the room, the caterers, Simon and Simon. Julian, of course, didn’t count. The women duly laughed. ‘Before drawing the door prize, I have a few things I need to say.’ Polite smiles were affixed upon faces as they waited for the opportunity to win stuff.

  The Dame knew how crucial it was to highlight her generous sponsors in order to keep them on side for next time. Also her high-profile guests needed to be mentioned, but which order to introduce them in? It was a prickly minefield of egos and loyalties.

  Dame Frances then outlined the fashion designers they were about to see with special mention of those designers that were giving away the outfits in the raffle to be held later that day. She could sense the natives were getting restless as the whispers were starting up. Did they really think she couldn’t see them from this vantage point muttering to each other? And did they really think a menu held in front of a gossiping lipsticked mouth was going to hide it? She made a mental note to place the whisperers at the back of the room next time.

  Eventually Dame Frances handed over to a representative of UP-Kids who spoke for ten minutes about the great work UP-Kids was doing, about the plight of the underprivileged children in Melbourne and about how important the contributions from Dame Frances’s UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee were.

  He had wanted to do a PowerPoint presentation to show the audience some images and video so they could get a sense of just how important the work was. But Dame Frances had pooh-poohed the idea as unnecessary bells and whistles, fearing that a ‘slide show’ would be boring and the AV requirements too complicated.

  Finally she got her microphone back. ‘I especially need to thank all of you here who are devoted to this very important cause. Without you, my loyal supporters, UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee wouldn’t be able to support such a worthy cause.

  ‘And now, I have a particularly important announcement to make.’ The rustles stilled and the women listened expectantly as it sounded like a scoop of gossip was about to be dropped.

  ‘You’re lucky to be the first ones to hear that today I open ticket sales of the annual Chocolate Ball.’ The sense of disappointment in the room was felt even by Dame Frances. She hurried on in order to keep their interest. ‘This year, it is called the Rum Ball, and we will have a very special entertainment spectacular and many distinguished special guests. You’re able to buy tickets before they officially go on sale, so don’t wait as it’s sure to be a sellout.’ A smattering of applause followed Dame Frances’s announcement. ‘And to spice things up, ladies, this year’s ball is to have an unusual edge. We’ve entered into a challenge. It’s a friendly little competition between PR professional Gemma Bristol, who recently chose to leave our committee, and myself. Gemma will be holding a wee function on the same night as a bit of a lark.’ The women murmured; this sounded interesting. ‘Of course, I know you’re all my faithful followers and you won’t be enticed to the other side, as it were.’ The women laughed – as if they would dare. ‘So here’s to healthy competition!’ she concluded.

  She swiftly moved on to what they were so eager to hear. ‘Now the winner of the door prize. A hamper of goodies from L’Occitane goes to table twelve, seat seven.’ A loud cheer went up from the table as the lucky winner stood to gracefully accept her prize that was ferried over by Julian.

  ‘And now, ladies and . . . gentlemen,’ she wiggled her fingers at Simon and Simon again to repeat her earlier gag and received a similar rustle of laughter, ‘please welcome Melbourne’s finest designers with Spring/Summer 2011.’ She left the stage and made her way back to her seat as the house lights came down and the spotlights illuminated the first foal-like teenager on stage wrapped in a sarong and bathing suit.

  *

  After many congratulations and accolades Dame Frances and Julian took their leave. The limo slid down the drive away from the last straggling guests. She turned to Julian. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘As wonderful as always, Dame Frances. Just remarkable.’

  Dame Frances snorted and looked back out at the dim Melbourne afternoon, hardly seeing the busy Malvern Road shoppers racing in for last-minute dinner needs at the various pret-a-manger stores in the famous shopping precinct.

  ‘Not as many as I’d hoped for.’

  ‘Well, no, but everyone’s so busy.’

  ‘Too busy for me?’ Dame Frances snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dame Frances?’

  ‘Too busy for me? That’s a first. There was a time when I’d just whisper about an event and it was sold out before we’d even printed the invitation.’ Her voice became unusually gentle. ‘I think it’s coming to an end, Julian.’ She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes then turned her rheumy gaze to her faithful companion.

  ‘Dame Frances, what do you mean?’ Julian was floored. He’d never heard Dame Frances speak in such a defeatist way before.

  ‘Oh, all this nonsense with young Gemma Bristol, it’s got me thinking. I’m at the winter of my life, Julian. It’s all over. I don’t get invited to any of the big shindigs anymore; after all, who’d want a has-been like me? I’m old, Julian, and there’s no respect for the aged. I was once a force to be reckoned with. By now I’d be having four different outfits made for the twenty different marquees at the Melbourne Spring Racing Carnival. How many invitations have we received?’

  ‘Well, it’s still early,’ Julian ventured.

  ‘Nonsense. What’s wrong with them?’ Her hands fluttered up then fell back onto her lap. She dropped her head back onto the headrest.

  ‘It’s not what’s wrong with them. It’s me. Of course they want the latest moppet from Home and Away at their marquee and beautiful cocktail parties. Never mind those bimbos haven’t contributed anything to this town but some mind-numbing entertainment. But they’re young and beautiful, and it’s what the world wants. The only oldies they want are superstars – like the time Liza Minelli was flown out for the Ca
rnival.’

  ‘But, Dame Frances, last year you were invited to judge Fashions on the Field.’

  ‘The final day, Julian; the children, that’s all. There was barely a network camera to be seen. I invested an hour in an interview with an upstart doing a project for Film and Television School, but I had no choice. I was so embarrassed to be the only person there being passed by. I posed when one photographer came up, but he simply came to ask me to stand back so he could take a photo of some wee hobo with horrible hair and a suit coat three sizes too small – I had no idea who he was.’

  ‘Justin Bieber?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. It’s time, Julian. It’s time to hang up my tiara. I have such a fear of the spotlight fading to black. I may as well just pull the cord.’

  ‘Oh, Dame Frances,’ Julian said, his eyes welling with tears to think he was witnessing the end of the great reign of Dame Frances Davenport.

  ‘Besides, I’ve been thinking about the grandchildren. Perhaps I’ll move to Noosa and be closer to them; Brisbane’s just too far away for me to see them from here.’

  ‘Well, Dame Frances, if that’s what you want to do, I’ll help you with the move. But I’ll miss you so much.’ His voice cracked.

  The Dame snapped back into her regular style at this ridiculous show of emotion. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, pull yourself together. I’m not going next week. We’ve got the rest of the year. And don’t forget we have the Rum Ball to show all of Melbourne that I’m still a force to be reckoned with. It will be my farewell, my coup de grâce. In fact,’ she was winding up now, ‘we are going to take that event and make it bigger and better than anything this city’s seen. It will be superb. Enormous, massive.’ Her aggressive, fiery words stopped and a glimmer of a wink was in her eye as she turned back to look at him. ‘Julian, we’re going to grab that ball by its balls.’

  Gemma’s navy Audi A5 weaved through the backstreets making its way home practically on autopilot. The penance for leaving work early was the peak-hour traffic but Gemma had a back route that managed to keep her off many of the main roads. It was about twice as long but worth it as she was able to miss the lights and the stop and start of the city’s end-of-day commuters. And she most certainly didn’t have the patience for it tonight.

  She was as wound up as a cheap watch. She needed to get home to Tyler as he had a huge geography assignment due and she’d been witnessing, over the past weeks, the lack of progress and, although she wouldn’t do it for him, she could at least be the cheer squad, bringing him snacks and enquiring as to its progress.

  When she’d heard which area Tyler had been assigned to study, it had made her smile. He had been given the geology of the Great Lakes of North America and the one thing he’d learned so far was that the majority of the lakes were in Canada. Which, of course made her think of Peter Blakely.

  Peter had called today to follow up on their Skype call. They’d had a great chat. Such a hoot. They’d laughed about stupid work antics on either side of the equator, and she’d had him in fits over the social pieces appearing by gossip columnist Priscilla Simcoe. He was so supportive and kind. She’d forgotten just how good it felt having a man listen, really listen, to her and actually enjoy it. She’d been hesitant at first, fearful that her fluffy stories would bore him, but he never failed to amaze her by his insistence that she continue with her complaints or tales. Then the bugger confirmed he needed her in New York again. Blast! It was apparently about the CEO position. He’d hinted that she was going to be asked to meet the successful applicant.

  The thought of packing and heading off to the other side of the world during this frantic time left her breathless. She felt tears prickle in panic. She flicked them aside. Naturally, thinking of Peter Blakely led her to thinking about Stephen. She obviously couldn’t, shouldn’t and wouldn’t be attracted to Peter. It wasn’t even an issue. She was married, for God’s sake. Married. Once, that had been a word associated with blissful futures, barbecues with other couples, Saturday evenings spent at home, peaceful movie nights. Why did the word now conjure up an image of prison bars?

  She looked at her two gold bangles. She wore one on each wrist. The first one she’d ordered when Stephen had slung her some cash and suggested she go and buy something pretty for herself to mark their engagement. Then the second was on their honeymoon and she’d been amazed to find an exact replica bangle in Switzerland so she had bought it to celebrate their wedding. She’d found it poignant at the time. Romantic. Now she looked at the bangles and thought that with just one gold chain linking the two, she’d have herself a pretty set of handcuffs.

  She considered the Friday night at home she was driving towards. She felt a little choked, a little scared. It would be eggshells, veiled threats, innuendos and just plain difficult. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  She knew that a strong marriage was based on good communication, shared interests and, most importantly, compromise. She’d read the books over the years, she’d spoken to experts. She felt like she’d failed. She’d tried, she really had.

  She was an expert on relationships now. Those of others, that is. Should a difficult colleague partnership rear its ugly head in the office, Gemma was the first one to mediate and help the pair through it. She would explain that they needed to work with each other so tolerance and understanding could be reached and that while personality clashes were completely normal and a part of life, respect would override disharmony. She’d also been extremely good at nipping ill feeling in the bud, at noticing the eye-rolling, the tiny nasty slights and had always been able to speak to the people involved and stop any disease before it could spread. Hence the staff at IQPR worked, mostly, in a harmonious family environment. So why on earth couldn’t she do that at home?

  Gemma felt that Stephen genuinely disliked her. Far more than antipathy, it was as if he went out of his way to annoy her under the guise of simple forgivable household errors.

  For example, he was constantly using up the last splash of milk when she only needed one teaspoon in her coffee every morning. She’d thought she was getting paranoid by even thinking that, until one morning recently she’d come into the kitchen and caught him actually pouring the milk down the sink.

  Instead of the bright ‘Good morning’ she’d had planned, she heard herself barking, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, the milk’s off,’ he’d said, ‘so I thought I’d help out and dispose of it.’

  ‘But I just bought it two days ago,’ she’d said, confused.

  ‘How weird is that?’ he’d said. ‘You should complain to the manager of the supermarket.’ And he’d put the empty container on the sink and left the room.

  She turned off the side street onto Glenferrie Road. She shook her head. Who would do that on purpose? That was just mad to even consider. Standstill. She could see all the way under the bridge and up the hill to the Riversdale Road lights. Tyler’s school was to the left and had held a swimming carnival after school. Streams of cars lined up along the school’s driveway attempting to enter the clogged main road. Tyler hadn’t competed.

  Her mobile phone rang. With her eyes on the road she hit the answer button, so she didn’t see the caller ID. ‘Gemma Bristol.’

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ the female voice came through the speaker.

  ‘Hello?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Oh, it has been a while if you don’t even recognise me. I’ll give you a clue: your hair must look a wreck unless you’ve also found a new hairstylist as well as a new friend.’

  ‘Ohhh, Mercedes, hello, darling. I haven’t spoken to you in so long.’

  ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well, bored, if you must know. We haven’t been out in ages. Don’t you have any functions on anymore? Is IQPR going bad or something?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, love.’ Gemma suddenly realised that she was about to fall into old habits and make promises that would be difficult to keep, all in order to maintain the p
eace. But Mercedes’s grabby attitude was really giving her the shits. It had never bothered her when it came to goody bags, free nights out or open bars, but recently it seemed to be Gemma’s very soul Mercedes was clawing at and quite frankly, that was tapped to the extreme at the moment. There was just nothing left to give.

  ‘The thing is,’ Gemma continued, ‘do you remember I told you that I have taken on the temporary role of CEO?’

  ‘Yes, vaguely . . . well, no, actually. Maybe you told that tidbit to your new little pet Laura.’

  Gemma chose to ignore the dig, because she was close to having a meltdown. She reflected on the past three years and tried to gauge the moment when Mercedes went from being her hairdresser to becoming her friend. How had that happened? At that moment she couldn’t think why she would have ever chosen her for a friend.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ she continued, ‘but the thing is, I’m so swamped with running the joint that I’ve had to delegate many of my function management duties to the staff. And really, it’s about time too. I have to move beyond that part of the job. I am only needed if it’s a huge client and they’ve requested me.’

  ‘Ohhh, but why?’ Mercedes whined. ‘That’s the best bit of the job. Can’t you delegate the paper pushing and keep the parties? They’re so much fun.’

  ‘I can’t see what’s fun about standing around mooching off the client’s purse and schmoozing no-name professional partygoers. Honestly, Mercedes, I’m not interested in that part of the job anymore. There are far too many more important things that need my attention. And don’t forget the Chocolate Ball – I’m really counting on you for your help. We need you at the meetings.’